


Somebody Waits For You

by PocketAnon



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Captain Cobra - Freeform, Captain Swan - Freeform, Captain Swan Secret Santa, Captain Swan Secret Santa 2016, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 13:57:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8982781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PocketAnon/pseuds/PocketAnon
Summary: After years trying to make things work with a bad boyfriend/business partner, Emma Swan abandons New York for a fresh start in Boston with her son, looking for a way to live her life and run her coffee shop on her own terms.  Enter Killian Jones, the pretty perfect owner of the bookstore next door who’s just the man to help her do it.  But even the perfect guy can be haunted by his past, and the events of the Christmas season help reveal that maybe it’s not so much about her needing him as about them needing each other. (Captain Swan/Captain Cobra modern AU, coffee shop AU, bookstore AU, Christmas fic.  Angst & Romance/Fluff.  Rated G.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [once_uponacaptain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/once_uponacaptain/gifts).



> A very Merry Christmas to my CS Secret Santa giftee, @once-uponacaptain! I set out to write you a quick combined coffee shop/bookstore AU. Things got slightly out of hand, and this is what happened instead. I really hope you enjoy it anyway! LOL. It's been lovely messaging with you the last few weeks and getting to know more about you. I hope you and your family have a wonderful, worshipful holiday season!

The electronic chime signals the opening of the front door of Horizon Bound, and Killian looks up from the inventory order list on his computer screen to greet the person who has just entered his bookstore. Correction: _people_. The pair to grace his threshold consists of a young adolescent boy with a head of shaggy brown hair and an eager smile and – Killian’s lips part involuntarily – a stunning young woman with thick, blonde tresses hanging in gentle waves to the middle of her back, an athletic figure obvious beneath her tank top, and the face of an angel. _Wow._ His usual call of hello completely forgotten, he stares just long enough to warrant embarrassment before he catches himself and tries, at least, to affect his most debonair smile. 

The boy, dressed in shorts and a well-loved Star Wars tee, trots straight up to the counter. “Hi!”

The woman remains a step behind, her hands tucked into the back pockets of dark blue skinny jeans, and Killian dares to meet her gaze. _Oh._ Her large eyes are grayish green, the color of a forest in the morning mist, and they sparkle in a warm, if slightly anxious silent greeting. It’s a Herculean task for Killian to tear his attention away from her and focus on the boy with a friendly nod. “Hello, lad. Welcome.”

The boy beams, eagerly leaning forward on the counter on his elbows. “I’m Henry,” he announces sunnily. “This is my mom. We’re your new neighbors.”

Killian blinks. “The new coffee place next door?” he asks, tilting his head toward the wall directly behind him. 

Henry's grin widens, and he bobs his head. “Uh-huh.”

The street is fairly thriving with businesses, the only recent vacancy being the little former café next door that had finally been leased several months ago to a new establishment called The Blonde Roast. Killian has peeked in the window several times over the course of the renovation, but never caught glimpse of the new owner. Until now. _Bloody hell, was it worth the wait._ He steals another glance at the woman as he gives Henry an officious handshake. “Killian Jones,” he says. “At your service, sir.” Henry lets go with a giggle, and Killian now reaches toward her, eyebrows slightly raised in question.

“Emma,” she supplies, sliding her palm into his. “Emma Swan.”

Her hand is warm, her grip soft but firm, and his pulse noticeably quickens at the contact.

“A pleasure,” he croaks. His heart leaps inside his chest when a pretty wash of color rises in her cheeks.

“We’re giving out coupons for free coffee to people to say hi,” Henry continues cheerfully, sliding a little printed voucher across the counter. “Will you come by to see us? We open next week.”

Killian releases Emma’s hand at last, reaching down and retrieving the slip. He studies it before tucking it carefully into the pocket of his jeans and nods, offering Henry a more self-assured smile. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

 

* * *

 

It’s been an enormous labor of love, but moving away from New York to start up her own coffee shop here in Boston has been the best kind of change for Emma. After three years of trying to salvage a poisonous business partnership (and an even more poisonous romantic relationship) with her philandering ex-boyfriend, she’s done wasting time, done being made to feel like she’s not enough. Here, 200 miles away, she’s free to start fresh, free to run her shop and her life on her own terms, free to focus solely on making her customers happy and trying to be the mother her kid deserves.

They meet Killian Jones, the one-handed, American-born, British-raised owner of the fastidiously-run bookstore next door, at the blazing height of summer, a few days after their move. He’s so unfairly handsome that she almost trips as she follows Henry into Horizon Bound for the first time, far too distracted by his windswept dark hair and sexy three day-old scruff and knee-weakening smile and probing blue eyes to pay her feet much mind. But he also proves to be intelligent, charming, generous, and disturbingly easy to get along with. After the disaster that was Walsh, she’s vowed not to get involved with a man for at least a year, and she honestly means that from the bottom of her battered heart, but Emma has to admit that befriending a nice guy like Killian makes her all the more grateful to have found this particular storefront on this particular street in this particular town.

After his first visit to the coffee shop on opening day (at which time he declares the flat white she makes him and the accompanying croissant to be “Bloody brilliant, Swan” in that alluring accent of his), he makes a stop by The Blonde Roast part of his morning routine. He usually lingers a few minutes to chat with her as much as the busyness of her morning rush will allow, leaning on the far end of the counter out of the way of her other customers while he nurses his coffee and watches her bustle around with admiration in his eye. He seems as reluctant to talk about his upbringing as she is to talk about hers, and they reach an unspoken agreement early on not to push or pry too much, instead talking about menu items she’s contemplating, the gems from his newest shipment of books, or Henry’s latest escapades. And inevitably, he always finds a way to flirt a little with her before he goes, sneaking little compliments into the conversation or just boldly dropping a double entendre and meeting her blush with that devilish smirk of his that makes her heart stutter.

She tries to ignore the butterflies that come to live in her stomach at his beck and call. Flirting, she learns quickly, is part of his nature. Some people are wiseasses, some people are self-deprecating comedians, and Killian is a charmer. It’s simply who he is, she tells herself; there’s no pressure because it doesn’t _mean_ anything. And she reminds herself frequently that she should be grateful for that, because recovering from years of emotional turmoil and starting a new business in a new town while being a single mother is kind of all she can handle most days.

Henry comes to the coffee shop every day after school to help out or work on his homework at a corner table until closing time, but it’s hardly a couple of weeks before he begins to ask to go next door while she works. Killian always seems to have a useful book for Henry’s latest assignment or a new sci-fi novel for him to enjoy or a personal tale about his world travels as a former captain in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy that draws her son to Horizon Bound like a starving man to a banquet. 

In truth, Emma is happy to see Henry so enamored with the bookstore. Her son has always been a dreamer and a romantic, apt to be swept up in stories about heroes and villains and far off lands both real and imagined, and she’s glad he’s found a safe place in their new home where he can indulge that. It’s certainly made the move easier on him, and it’s a relief not having to worry that he’s languishing bored in the corner of the coffee shop while she’s making macchiato. It also doesn’t hurt that Killian seems a far better male role model for Henry than Walsh turned out to be.

In short, after all the nastiness that she put up with in New York, the world seems determined now to make it up to her in the form of a nice new city, a great new business, a happy kid, and a pretty perfect platonic relationship with the pretty perfect man next door.

 

* * *

 

The front door chimes in the middle of a stormy afternoon in September, and Killian pokes his head out from the Self-Help section, his face lighting up. “Swan.”

Emma’s hair is pulled back into the graceful ponytail she favors for work, a few windblown strands gracing her cheek, and she’s wearing a pretty cream blouse with slightly puffed sleeves and her habitual jeans under her apron. He notes the uncertain bent of her brow and the flush of her skin. “Do you have a minute?” she asks, sounding a little frazzled.

Killian sets the book in his hand back on the shelf and steps toward her. “Of course, love.”

“Know anything about awnings?” Her forehead wrinkles fetchingly, and she plants her hands on her hips.

“Ah.” He chuckles. “Let me guess. Yours won’t close properly?”

She angles her head, one eye squinting. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

He grins and motions for her to wait before he turns and heads for the storage room in the back. “The woman who owned the café that was there before you had the same problem from time to time,” he calls over his shoulder. He returns with his toolbox and a stepstool. “I remember the first time it happened to her. Granny’s tongue could put an old sailor’s to shame,” he recalls fondly. “She was glad to be rid of it that awning when she decided to move to a bigger location.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Oh _now_ someone tells me. There’s a storm coming, and I’ve been outside for fifteen minutes trying to get it retracted before the wind picks up.”

“Well, as luck would have it, I’m your man,” Killian says cheerfully. He calls to his employee, Belle, that he’s stepping out for a bit before shouldering the door open and holding it ajar with his body. He gestures for Emma to go first, extending his right arm, toolbox in hand, out to his side with a flourish, and giving her a little bow. She passes through, her eyes laughing at his silliness even as a hint of pink rises in her cheeks, and Killian’s grin widens. “No worries, love. I haven’t lost a battle with the beast yet.”

Ominous clouds can be seen hanging in the gray sky at a distance, and gusts are indeed starting to blow. They toss Emma’s ponytail sideways like fluttering ribbons as Killian sets up his stool on one side of the half-extended green-and-white striped awning that shelters the front face of the coffee shop. He braces the hand crank with his left arm, his hand grabs the handle and gives it an experimental turn, and he hums knowingly at the resistance.

“Same problem?” Emma asks anxiously, wrapping her arms around herself to combat the wind chill.

“Aye. Shouldn’t take but a few minutes to correct,” he assures her. He notes her posture and nods toward the coffee shop. “You can go inside if you like, Swan. It’s getting colder. I’ll take care of this.” Killian reaches down to flip open his toolbox and pulls out a can of spray lubricant and a screwdriver. 

She smiles gratefully and beelines for her door. “Come inside for cocoa when you’re done,” she tells him.

He cranes his head up at her and beams. “If you insist.”

It’s a simple fix to get the awning working smoothly again and one that he’s made many times before. A quick inspection of the retractable arms to make sure they’re clear of debris, a few squirts of lubricant in the key places he knows tend to cause trouble, and a little finessing, and Killian has the crank rolling and unrolling the waterproof fabric like a dream in under ten minutes. He catches Emma’s eye through the window as he finishes up, and he meets her look of approval with a grin and a wink.

He runs the toolbox and stepstool back to Horizon Bound and does a quick wash-up before popping over to the coffee shop with a spring in his step, snagging the detachable awning crank on his way.

“There you are, love,” he says, striding into the shop and handing it over the counter to her as soon as her hands are free. “Good as new.”

“Thanks.” She offers him a relieved smile that sends a gratified thrill coursing through his chest, and he suddenly itches to find other things to do for her just to keep her looking at him this way. Emma tilts her head toward a large cup capped in whipped cream and a sugar cookie in a wax paper envelope sitting at his favorite spot at the end of the counter. “I figured you’d want to take your cocoa down there,” she says, “Unless,” her eyebrows pinch upward a little, “You need to get back to the store?”

Killian chuckles. “Not at all. Belle is more than capable of running the ship for a while.” He doesn’t miss the pleased dimple that appears in her cheek as he walks over to help himself. There’s a reddish brown spice dashed over the top of his hot cocoa, and he sniffs. “Cinnamon?”

Emma crosses her arms and gives him an encouraging nod, a smirk curving her lips. “Try it.”

His faith in Emma Swan’s culinary abilities unwavering, Killian samples her drink and hums appreciatively at the taste that blooms on his tongue. “Mm. Remarkable,” he decides, taking a longer draught. “Sweet, with a little heat.” His eyes dance over the top of his cup. “Not unlike a certain lass I know.”

Her lashes brush the tops of her cheeks as she gives a little laugh and turns to address a large ball of dough that’s being worked together in her standing mixer at the little baking station directly behind the counter from where he stands. “Does the awning need tweaking like that often?” she asks.

He shrugs and takes a bite of his cookie. “Every few months perhaps. Come fetch me whenever you have a need, Swan. I’m at your service.”

She favors him with a glowing smile over her shoulder. “Thanks.” She switches off the mixer and scatters a handful of flour over her work surface before hefting the dough out of the bowl and beginning to knead. “I can see I’m going to owe you a lot of cocoa and cookies.”

Killian considers her for a long moment. He’s been debating how long to wait before asking Emma out, not wanting to scare her off or risk ruining their friendship, but he’s grown increasingly impatient lately, and he supposes this is as good a time as any. “If you tire of paying me with treats, love, you could just let me take you dinner,” he says as casually as he can.

Emma pauses and turns her head to fix him with wide eyes. “I…” The surprise fades from her face, and her eyes darken with conflicting emotions before she sighs and her mouth quirks apologetically. “That’s really nice, but I kind of can’t right now.”

His stomach falls heavy with disappointment. Has he read her wrong? The blushes, the sideways glances, the way she rolls her eyes at him when he flirts and laughs at his jokes – he’s fairly sure he’s not read her wrong. He does his best to keep his shoulders from falling, careful to appear unperturbed as he cocks an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I— I just have a lot going on,” she says weakly, wiping her hands and turning to face him. “With Henry and the shop and…” She shakes her head helplessly. “I don’t really have time for anything… or anyone else right now. It’s not that I don’t… you know…” she trails off awkwardly, instead faltering once before hesitantly laying a hand on top of his left forearm and giving him a consoling squeeze.

Killian smiles gently and swallows, his heart in his throat at the sensation of her hand resting so near his stump. Somehow, even when she’s rejecting him, the woman finds a way to make him even more enamored of her. Heaven help him, he’s buggered. He manages a nod. “I understand, Swan. It’s quite alright. Take your time.” He takes a chance and lifts her hand off his arm, raising it to his lips and pressing a chaste kiss to her skin before letting her go. Her expression softens, and he sees as much regret in her eyes as anxiety. The tiniest bit of hope flickers in his chest. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promises.

 

* * *

 

Emma glances at the wall clock with a frown painted across her features. It’s well after nine on an early October morning, a good hour after Killian generally makes his appearance, and there’s been no sign of him today. She reaches for her phone and taps out a text message.

_Is everything OK?_

Fear begins to take hold as the seconds tick by. At last, after almost ten minutes, just as she’s on the verge of calling him, her phone dings in response.  
_Sorry, love. Home sick today. Missing the pleasure of your company too._

She chooses not to examine how relieved she is to hear back from him, instead rolling her eyes at his attempt to flirt with her even when he’s under the weather.  
_What’s wrong?_

_My stomach has declared mutiny, among other things._

Emma winces.  
_Do you need anything?_

_Dinner with you. Once I’m well, of course._

_You know what I mean._

_Don’t worry about me, Swan. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s surviving._

_Text me your address. Henry and I will bring something by later._

_Why darling, I didn’t know you cared._

_Idiot. Of course I care._

_You should be careful about trying to seduce me with romantic words, love. I’m in no shape to do anything about it at the moment._

She laughs in spite of herself.  
_Shut up._

He texts her his address, and she tells him they’ll be by before dinner. When Henry arrives at the coffee shop after school, Emma sends him down to the corner deli to pick up a couple large containers of chicken soup, a loaf of artisan bread, and some bottles of the grapefruit juice she knows Killian favors. By the time her son returns, she’s also put together a small (well, perhaps not-so-small) bag of Killian’s favorite scones, muffins, and cookies, and she leaves her employees Elsa and Ana in charge while she and Henry set out to deliver their care package.

Killian, it turns out, lives just a few blocks from the shop in a smart-looking brick and glass apartment building. Emma takes a deep breath, feeling antsy as they wait for him to buzz them in. It’s not that she’s excited to see him or see where he lives, she tells herself. It’s not. She’s just nervous that she might be sending the wrong signal. She’s not sure why she volunteered so readily to come in the first place, but she glances over at her son, who’s proudly bearing the large paper bag from the deli, and her mouth forms a rueful smile. Henry. She’s doing this because Killian has been good to her and Henry. He’s a friend. And what are friends for, after all?

Her eyes widen when Killian opens the door to his apartment. His hair is mussed in a terrible case of bed-head and sticking up in places in a way that’s weirdly cute. He’s pale with dark circles beneath his eyes, and instead of his usual crisp button-up, waistcoat, and jeans, he’s in a navy blue Henley with plaid flannel pants that hang loose on his hips, bare feet peeking out from below. He looks exhausted. And oddly huggable. And she chastises herself for the latter thought immediately.

Despite his ill appearance, his face brightens when he sees them standing there, and he graciously shuttles them inside. His apartment is modest, as tidy as the bookstore, and, like many bachelor pads, more about function than aesthetics, furnished with comfortable-looking, if uncoordinated, furniture.

“How do you feel?” she asks. 

Killian gestures toward his kitchen, wordlessly giving her permission to commandeer it, and he shuffles after her and Henry. “I’ve had worse days.” He takes a seat at his breakfast bar with a groan and a grim chuckle.

She can tell he’s making an effort to sound nonchalant. “You look miserable,” she observes as she and Henry begin to unpack the bag.

“Yes, well, I’ve spent the day getting better acquainted with my toilet bowl, and I must say she’s not nearly as good a conversationalist as you are, Swan,” he replies wryly.

Henry giggles, climbing on to the bar stool next to him.

Emma grins as she goes to stow the juice in the refrigerator, and Killian turns his attention to her son. “How was school today, lad?”

“Good.”

“Spelling test go alright?”

“96 percent,” Henry announces proudly.

Killian beams. “Excellent work.”

Emma listens to their exchange with fascination as she finishes stocking the fridge and then proceeds to locate a clean dishtowel with which to wrap the bread. Outside of his teachers, she’s never known anyone other than herself to take an interest in her son’s schoolwork. Henry’s grades have been better since they moved to Boston, and she’d attributed it to him being happier here and to his new teacher being more effective. Now she steals a glance at Killian and Henry as they continue to chat and wonders if those might not be the only contributing factors.

They leave a short while later, with Emma pointing out that they should let Killian rest. Gentleman as always, he walks them back to the door and thanks them for their thoughtfulness.

“I hope you feel better soon,” she says as she follows Henry out into the corridor.

Killian leans on the door and gives her a weak grin. “With you two to look after me, how could I not, Swan?”

Emma hums and flashes him a smile over her shoulder, ignoring the pitter-pat in her chest and feeling silly about having had any misgivings about coming.

 

* * *

 

“You really like her, don’t you?” Henry asks out of the blue the day after Halloween as he helps Killian scan a new box of Jane Austen classics into inventory. “My mom.” He pulls another book from the box and zaps the bar code with the cordless scanner before setting it aside.

Killian freezes momentarily before going back to arranging the scanned books on the shelf. “What makes you say that, lad?”

Henry rolls his eyes in that way that leaves little doubt that Emma Swan is his mother. “Come on. You come to the coffee shop every day.”

“Your mother makes wonderful coffee.”

“And you talk to her _a lot_.”

Killian shrugs. “Well, that’s what friends do.”

“And you flirt with her.”

“I flirt with all the ladies, lad,” he points out, winking. “It’s good for business.”

“Yeah, but you _mean_ it with her,” Henry argues, undeterred. “You actually mean it when you say she’s pretty and smart and whatever.”

Killian shrugs. “You have eyes, Henry. Your mother _is_ pretty. And very smart.”

“And you like her, right?”

Killian sighs resignedly, setting the last of his current armload of books on the shelf with the others. He turns to face the boy, propping his elbow on the bookcase. “What are you trying to get at?”

Henry grins triumphantly. “You should ask her out,” he declares.

Killian glances away, thumb rolling along his fingertips absently, before he gets back to work. “And what if I already did?”

Henry’s eyes grow big. “You did?”

He nods and resumes stocking shelves. “Aye, lad. Many weeks ago.”

Henry’s face wrinkles with confusion. “And she said no?”

Killian narrows his eyes at the ceiling. “More like…she hasn’t said yes yet.”

“I don’t get it,” Henry says, setting the scanner aside and sitting back on his hands. “She likes you. Like, _a lot_.”

Killian pauses and turns his head, one eyebrow raised. “She does?”

“Well, yeah,” Henry chuffs, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “She smiles more around you than she does around anybody. She was pretty bummed that whole week you were out sick, and then she cheered up the day you came back. And ever since you told her you like shortbread, she’s been kind of obsessed with finding the perfect shortbread cookie to put on the menu.”

A slow smile tugs at Killian’s lips, and hope blooms in his chest. “Is that so?”

“I’m her official taste-tester,” Henry says matter-of-factly.

Killian laughs, grinning ear-to-ear and feeling a little giddy. He eyes the boy fondly and heaves a wistful sigh. “Well, be that as it may, I think your mum just wants to focus on running the shop right now,” he explains carefully. “It’s a lot of work to try to make a new business successful.”

Henry purses his lips, lolling one foot back and forth. “I guess. You should keep asking though. Mom’s stubborn. When I want something, sometimes I have to just keep asking, wear her down,” he offers sagely.

Killian chuckles. “I’ll take that into consideration.”

Henry sits up and begins scanning books again. “She deserves a good boyfriend.”

Killian stares at him, his throat tightening both at that sentiment and at the fact that the lad apparently deems him good boyfriend material. He swallows. “Aye.”

“Just…” Henry hesitates. “When she does say yes, don’t make her cry, okay? Her last boyfriend kind of sucked, and she thinks I don’t know, but she cried all the time.”

Killian’s face softens, and his eyebrows pinch upward. “Is that so?”

“Uh-huh.” His face turns a little sad. “I don’t want that to happen again.”

Filled with new clarity, Killian kneels in front of him, his expression solemn. “Your mum’s happiness is my top priority, Henry. So we’re going to let her call the shots, okay? She’ll go out to dinner with me when she’s ready.”

Henry considers this and nods. His expression turns cheerful again when Killian holds his hand out and they shake on it decisively. “Okay.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry not to release this earlier today as I intended, but it's still technically Christmas Day (as promised), and real life has kept me pretty busy today with Christmas presents this morning, preparing a full Christmas dinner this afternoon, and generally spending time with my family. Plus I decided to take a few more passes through this chapter to try to tighten things up a bit. Thanks for your patience! I wish you and your loved ones a wonderful holiday season, and I appreciate your kind comments as always! Thanks for reading.

Autumn passes in a blur for Emma as The Blonde Roast continues to gain a reputation in the neighborhood as the best place to grab a warm drink and a sweet treat. She takes on a couple extra employees, trials new suppliers, and continues to fine-tune her menu. The days go by fast, and her evenings, spent trying to catch up on motherhood while still working on plans for the shop, go by faster. 

Killian remains a reliable presence despite the fact that she continues to ignore his subtle (and not-so-subtle) romantic overtures, blessedly stalwart in his refusal to let her rejection affect their otherwise remarkably natural friendship. She’d be lying if she didn’t admit that his continued attentions make her feel special and that she’s impressed by his doggedness. She’d also be lying if she didn’t admit that with each passing day, she’s more and more tempted to finally say yes to him, not out of concern that his patience has an expiration date, but out of a growing desire to let him in. 

He establishes himself almost immediately as a bright spot in her world. No matter how bad the morning, knowing that she can count on seeing him swagger through her door with one of his heart-stopping smiles and a kind word or a witty quip always makes things seem more bearable. Her daily crises come in all shapes and sizes – Henry’s latest “Oh-by-the-way-Mom-I-need” or an entire batch of cookies blackened by a faulty oven or a particularly bad burn from the milk steamer – but Killian remains the same. He’s just so… steady. And that’s both refreshing and intriguing because not much about her life has been steady (except, perhaps, disappointment).

Where Walsh left her feeling fractured, inadequate, and constantly wondering what emotional rollercoaster was in store that day, Killian makes her feel… whole. Worthy. He makes her life better. He makes _her_ better. And she starts to think, maybe… maybe she could do this. Maybe _they_ could do this. Maybe if things got hard, he wouldn’t give up on her. Maybe she’s capable of having a relationship that doesn’t end in catastrophe. Maybe. 

October gives way to November, and Thanksgiving comes and goes, and every morning she watches him walk out of the coffee shop plagued by her maybes and wondering if tomorrow will be the day she feels ready to put her faith in Killian Jones.

 

* * *

 

“Something’s wrong with Killian,” Henry informs Emma the first week of December. It’s a school night, and he sits at the kitchen table in their apartment working on math problems and intermittently waggling his pencil between his fingers.

Emma glances over at him from where she stands at the kitchen counter reviewing last week’s sales on her laptop and planning her next few days of baking. Her forehead creases. “What do you mean?” 

Henry scrunches his nose. “He just seems down lately. And kinda grumpy.”

Concern clouds her features. “Did he say something do you?”

“Huh? Oh. No. No, he’s still nice. He’s just… He’s not as happy, you know?” Henry chews on his lip. “He doesn’t talk as much. And he dropped a bunch of books the other day, and he actually got mad at himself. Like, he used a British swear word.” 

She narrows her eyes at him. “How did you know it was a swear word?”

“’Cause he made me promise I wouldn’t repeat it in front of you,” Henry says sheepishly. He sits forward. “But that’s not like him.”

Emma folds her arms, looking thoughtful. “No, it’s not. Now that you mention it, he didn’t stick around much to talk last week. I figured it was because the shop has been so busy lately with customers wanting the new holiday items.” 

Henry props his cheek on his hand, tapping the eraser of his pencil on the worksheet in front of him. “I think he might hate Christmas.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He told me. Well, sort of.” Henry continues to play with his pencil. “He noticed the decorations you put up at the shop, and I was telling him about how it’s your favorite holiday and all the stuff we do, like the silly sweaters and the toy drive and the tree and Christmas dinner and everything, and he just got really quiet and looked kind of sad,” he explains, “So I asked him if he liked Christmas, and he said Christmas wasn’t really for people like him.” Henry frowns. “At first I thought he meant he was Jewish or something, but then I remembered that cross he wears around his neck.”

Emma hums and comes around, pulling out the chair next to her son’s, spinning it, and straddling it backward with a deep sigh. She hugs the back, chin resting on her forearm. “Well, sometimes holidays like Christmas make people sad,” she points out gently, her eyes somber. “Especially when they’re alone or missing the people they love.”

Henry considers this, his face falling. “Do you think that’s what’s wrong?” he asks earnestly.

Emma smiles at his concern for Killian. “I don’t know,” she admits. “Maybe.”

“He never talks about his family.” Henry drops the pencil and sits back, his gaze far away. “Maybe… maybe if he’s lonely, we should invite him to do something with us,” he suggests, his face suddenly brightening. “Try to cheer him up.”

Pride in her son’s good heart mixes with panic, and Emma nods weakly. She’s spent the last several months turning down Killian’s proposals to do things together, and even if it’s getting harder to remember why, the idea is still scary. _This is different_ , she scolds herself. _We’re not talking about a date._ “Like what?” she asks, trying to sound upbeat. She holds her breath as the gears turn in her son’s head.

“What about ice skating?” he suggests after a few long seconds. “You said we could check out that one rink this weekend. Maybe Killian could come.”

Her knee-jerk reaction is to say no. Ice skating with Killian sounds romantic. But then, she realizes, almost everything with Killian sounds romantic. Honestly, she’s not sure she’d trust herself to go to the grocery store with the man. One look at Henry’s shining face, however, and she berates herself for being silly. Emma clears her throat, her pulse accelerating. “I guess that could work.”

 

* * *

 

Killian could swear he’s mistaken Thursday afternoon when Henry comes to the bookstore and invites him to go ice skating. He stares blankly. “Sorry?”

“I said we’re going ice skating this weekend,” Henry repeats patiently, “And we thought maybe you’d like to come.” The lad hunches over the counter on his elbows, radiating hopefulness and watching Killian load a fresh roll of receipt paper into the register.

Ice skating. He hasn’t been ice skating in ages. Killian stops what he’s doing and crosses his arms, wracked with mixed feelings. “You’re sure your mother is alright with that?” he asks skeptically. Skating with Emma sounds… romantic. And Emma has made it clear that she has no intention of doing anything romantic with him. _Or anyone_ , he reminds himself. _Anyone._

Henry dimples. “Yeah, she’s good with it.”

Killian returns his smile, still feeling dubious. A chance to spend time with Emma and Henry outside of work hours? As morose as he might be these days, he still recognizes he’d be a fool not to jump at the opportunity. He clears his throat. “I suppose I could find the time.”

 

* * *

 

Saturday afternoon is clear and cold, the sunlight dazzling off the white snow that covers nearly everything at the Frog Pond at Boston Commons. The place is busy with bundled up visitors looking to enjoy the ice, and Emma tries to reassure herself as she follows Killian and Henry away from the rental desk, hefty skates in hand, that no matter how romantically interested or good-looking her company, a noisy venue full of excited kids is a nice, neutral, decidedly not-intimate setting where she can hopefully survive a few hours without being overwhelmed by any confusing feelings. The thought brings little comfort as she catches herself ogling Killian’s butt in those ridiculously well-fitting jeans of his for the thousandth time.

They find a vacant bench that’s reasonably dry, and Henry and Emma watch with fascination as Killian does up his skates with surprising efficiency. His hand alternates between the laces, vehemently yanking them taut over and over again as he works his way steadily upward, and when he reaches the point of tying the knot, he deftly intertwines the laces and pins the end of one down with his other foot while his dexterous fingers manipulate the other around it in order to create a secure-looking bow.

“Whoa, cool,” Henry breathes.

Killian flashes him a modest smile as he moves on to his other skate.

Emma volunteers to take their shoes to a locker and shoos the boys out on to the ice ahead of her, glad to buy even a few more minutes of distraction. At last, she crunches her way through the snow back to the rink’s edge and scans for Killian and Henry. When she locates them, she stares. They look like they’re playing tag. Her son’s movements are still a little slow and jerky, but Killian, who glides around smoothly, is gamely holding back in order to accommodate him, and by their wide smiles, they’re both having a great time. The warmth of a tear presses its way toward her eyes. She’s always known that the two get on well, but they’re off at the bookstore most of the time they’re together, and she’s never seen them quite like this.

Henry spies her and hollers between his mittens. “Mom! Come on!”

She shakes herself out of her thoughts. “Coming!” Emma sets foot on the rink, wobbling stiffly while her legs try to remember how to balance on twin blades, and by the time she steadies, the guys are nearly half a lap ahead of her. The cold air fills her lungs as she pushes to catch up, and her calves are burning when she finally comes up on them from behind, panting. “Hey.”

Henry cranes his head to look at her over his shoulder, grinning innocently. He holds his hand out, and she reaches to take it, only to have him rap her on the knuckles and yell, “Tag! You’re it!” 

On cue, Killian grabs her son’s elbow and hauls him off at breakaway speed, and they vanish into the fray, leaving her with only Henry’s delighted cackle in her ears.

Emma gapes like a fish before her eyes narrow dangerously. “Oh, like hell,” she mutters, hustling after them.

The three of them chase each other around the rink for the better part of an hour, weaving in and around the other skaters and more than once colliding with one another when the pursuit grows overzealous or the crowds too thick. It’s late afternoon when Killian veers sharply to avoid a pile-up of screeching teenage girls and bowls sideways into Emma. She yelps in surprise and grapples for him in a desperate bid to stay upright. A shriek escapes her as they spin chaotically and topple over, and before she knows it, she’s flat on her back and squashed beneath him, cold, wet, full of adrenaline, and shaking with uncontrollable laughter. She laughs so hard she hiccups. And then _he_ laughs. He laughs like she’s never heard him laugh before, the deep peals rumbling from his belly, the sound booming in her ear, and it’s positively glorious, and for a second, she doesn’t mind that this is totally inappropriate, that it’s romantic and sexy and everything she was trying to avoid, and that she likes the solid weight of him pressed up against her far more than she should. For a second, she’s just _happy_ – happy because she’s having fun and happy because she can see in the way his remarkably blue eyes are sparkling down at her that he’s happy too.

His forearms rest on either side of her head, and they stare at each other, oblivious to the noise and proximity of the other skaters passing by as their laughter fades into nervous chuckles. Her already-flushed face grows even warmer under his gaze, and she doesn’t miss the way his eyes flit to her lips before he catches himself and clears his throat, ducking his head shyly and scratching behind his ear before hoisting himself off of her. “Sorry, Swan,” he says, sounding as breathless as she feels. He carefully rises to his feet, taking a second to ensure his footing before he reaches down. 

Emma accepts his help, her heartbeat still galloping in her ears as he pulls her up. She teeters forward, bracing herself with a hand against his chest, and his stump appears at the small of her back to stabilize her. She gives a shaky hum and glances up. His face is ruddy in a way that’s endearing, and her lower lip disappears between her teeth. “Um, do you want to take a break?”

They leave Henry out on the ice playing with some kids she recognizes from his school, grabbing hot cocoa from the concession stand and settling on a bench. 

Emma cradles the thick foam cup between her gloved hands and sips, humming with satisfaction as the liquid warmth lends a little heat to her cold bones. She looks over at Killian, who seems to be contemplating his cup. “Yours okay?”

He drinks, shrugging. “It’ll do, Swan, but it doesn’t hold a candle to yours,” he says, with a wry grin.

“Flatterer,” she chuffs.

He catches the subtle straightening of her back and the tiny toss of her head and laughs. “Only the truth, love. You’ve ruined me for all other hot cocoa.”

“Well, I wish I could say I was sorry,” she tells him with a sly smile. She takes another pull from the cup and catches a stray drop on her upper lip with her tongue. 

A comfortable silence falls between them for a few minutes as they simply sit and drink and enjoy their nearness to one another, watching their breaths curl away from them in magical white puffs.

“Thank you for inviting me to come,” he says quietly.

Emma glances sideways, touched by the genuine gratitude on his face. She smiles softly. “I’m… glad you did,” she admits. She hesitates, tipping the last of her cocoa back. “Henry’s been worried about you.”

His wonderfully expressive eyebrows jump. “Worried?”

She nods apologetically. “He thinks the holiday season has you down.”

Grim recognition lights Killian’s face, and he seems to consider his response carefully. “I… It’s not the easiest time,” he says at last.

She watches him take another drink. “Ghosts of Christmas past?”

“Something like that.” He holds his now-empty cup out so she can drop hers inside before he rises to pitch them both into a nearby trash receptacle. 

Emma licks her lips, summoning her courage as he resumes his seat next to her. “You—you don’t have to talk about it,” she assures him hurriedly, “But if you want to, I don’t mind listening.” She gives an anxious little laugh, trying to break the tension. “You might end up telling me eventually anyway, you know. Especially if I ever do go out with you.”

Killian cocks his head. “I don’t suppose I could use my secrets as incentive to make that happen sooner, could I?” Before she can respond, he waves her off, chuckling dryly and turning his face away. “It’s alright, Swan.” He shoves his hand and his stump into his coat pockets and falls quiet for a moment, a sigh misting from between his lips and one knee bouncing. “I actually love Christmas,” he says at last, his tone heavy with melancholy and hushed enough for a confessional. “So did my brother, Liam, and my girlfriend, Milah.”

His words cause a thick sense of apprehension to creep over Emma.

“There was an accident. Five years ago. Bloody drunk driver going the wrong direction on the motorway.” He bows his head and brushes the side of his nose with his thumb. “It was an autumn thunderstorm. The bastard didn’t have his lights on, and we didn’t see him coming until it was too late.” He swallows hard, his voice wavering. “I woke up in hospital like this,” he murmurs, pulling his stump back out of his pocket and lifting it a little. “I was the lucky one.”

“Oh, Killian…” Emma’s chest grows tight as she tries to comprehend his loss. She throws caution to the wind and scoots a little closer. “I’m so sorry.” 

Killian watches, awe mixing with the sorrow on his face as her hand slips gingerly over the back of his and grasps it, and she meets his questioning glance with a nervous smile, ignoring the shivers that run down her spine.

He squeezes back, relaxing visibly and tipping his chin up to survey the scene before them with distant eyes. “This time of year is when I miss them the most, especially Liam,” he says. “We didn’t have much growing up, but Mum always made sure Christmas was special.” He smiles sadly. “We had all sorts of little traditions.”

“Like what?” she asks softly.

His gaze angles toward the sky. “Reading Christmas stories late at night. Leaving fudge for Santa because our mum preferred chocolate to biscuits. Making paper lanterns and letting them go outside our flat to remind Santa not to forget us. Attending church Christmas Eve.” He pauses. “Ice skating Christmas Day.”

Emma’s eyes widen. “Oh my god. Killian…” She glances at the rink and then back at him, horrified. 

The corner of his mouth curves, and he shakes his head, tightening his fingers reassuringly around hers. “It’s quite alright, love. I wanted to be here.”

“Why?” Her brow wrinkles incredulously. “Why would you want to come?”

Killian absently runs his thumb up and down the side of her pinky. “I like spending time with you and Henry,” he says simply. He tips his head toward her. “Don’t worry yourself over my ghosts, Swan. Today’s been lovely. I’ll never regret being here with you.”

Emma offers him a watery smile and sucks in a deep breath, letting it out slowly and falling into thought. It pains her to know he’s been shouldering this burden all this time, but her heart swells at the memory of his laughter and the idea that she and Henry have helped give him a good day in the midst of such a difficult time. There’s no erasing what happened to him, and he’ll probably never stop missing the people he lost (nor should he), but helping him find some more joy, trying to be a bright spot for _him_ for once, suddenly feels far more important than her silly obsession with keeping him at arm’s length.

She takes another deep breath. “We…We’re going to pick out a couple of Christmas trees and set them up tomorrow,” she offers. “For our place and the shop. I understand if you don’t want to, but you’re welcome to come help.”

Killian brightens and lifts an eyebrow, the rapscallion resurfacing once more. “Are you sure you want to let a scoundrel like me into your home?” he asks, eyes glinting mischievously.

She snorts. “Like I can’t keep you in line.”

“Nothing I’d like better than for you to try,” he chuckles.

“You guys wanna go?”

Emma startles as Henry appears to her right, carefully tromping his way through the snow, his cheeks red with exertion and his hair sweaty and matted to his forehead. He glances down and squints. “Are you holding hands?”

She silently swears and jerks her arm back hastily. “Uh, Killian’s hand was cold,” she says lamely, inwardly grimacing at her inability to lie more convincingly. She climbs to her feet. “Feel better?” she asks him brightly.

He disguises his disappointment well. “Aye,” he bellows with forced enthusiasm, rising with a small groan. They trail Henry toward the lockers, and he falls in step with Emma, catching her eye and flashing an appreciative smile that makes her stomach somersault. Killian dips his head to her ear, his voice low. “I do.” 

 

* * *

 

It feels a bit surreal to be combing through the collection of trees at a Christmas tree stand on a lot a few blocks from the coffee shop the following day, but Killian finds that the flashbacks it triggers of doing this as a boy with his brother do not inspire as much heartache as they used to, not when he has Emma and Henry to bring him back to the present.

Henry scampers from tree to tree erratically, while Killian and Emma take a more methodical approach, narrowing down the selection by size and starting there. Her eyes twinkle when he campaigns for them to get Fraser firs instead of Douglas firs. 

“They have sturdier branches and hold their needles better, Swan,” he insists. “No sense in buying a tree that will shed all over your floor.”

She chuckles and acquiesces without argument.

It doesn’t take them too long to locate two modest-sized trees that the three of them can agree on, and Henry is all but bouncing with enthusiasm as Killian helps the tree farmer tie their purchases to the roof of his SUV. It’s a relatively simple matter for Killian and Emma to unload the first tree at the coffee shop and set it up in the front corner next to the window. Between the three of them, they have it strung up with lights and silvery garland and a whimsical assortment of snowflake and coffee-themed ornaments in no time, and the way Emma’s face glows when they light the tree for the first time is magical and makes Killian want to kiss her so badly it hurts a little.

Fortunately, there’s not much time to dwell on it as they busy themselves with cleaning up and getting the other tree over to Emma and Henry’s apartment, an industrial-style loft on the third floor of a building half a mile and one T stop away. They send Henry up ahead of them to get the apartment door open and make sure the tree stand is ready while Killian and Emma haul the fir from the car into the building. It takes a little bit of effort and a lot of coordination between them to maneuver it through two sets of security doors, and Emma laughs as they sandwich themselves and the tree into the cramped building elevator, the branches tickling her nose and snagging her hair. Killian leans around the side of the tree to grin at her as the elevator makes its ascent, and the smile she gives him in return, warm and inviting and almost intimate, makes him want to crow aloud. 

The loft is only about 1000 square feet, but it’s modern, well-appointed, two stories tall, and full of sunlight. Killian admires the warm neutrals and soft fabrics – rugs, knit blankets, and upholstery – that make Emma and Henry’s space welcoming and cozy. Like the coffee shop, the space is heavily adorned with Christmas lights, and, in the absence of a fireplace mantle, a pair of monogrammed stockings hangs on the staircase railing leading up to the bedrooms.

They shoehorn the tree into a corner of the compact living room next to the staircase, and Emma goes to make hot cocoa while Henry opens a cardboard box marked “Christmas tree” and Killian helps him sort through wound up strings of lights and ornaments, many of which are the boy’s handiwork. Henry tells Killian about his mom’s habit of getting him a new ornament each year and begins narrating him through all eleven character ornaments in chronologic order. 

Killian hears a soft giggle and turns his head to see Emma watching them from behind the kitchen counter with a mug in her hand and an amused smile on her face. He winks at her, and her cheeks grow a deeper shade of salmon, but she continues to beam even as she turns away to finish preparing refreshments.

Henry is just telling him about last year’s BB-8 ornament when Emma brings a tray into the living room and sets it on the coffee table. Dropping to the floor beside them, she sidles up next to Killian on her knees and lays her hand on his shoulder to draw his attention to the mug she silently holds out to him. He turns his head, eyes flickering down to her hand and then up to her with an eyebrow raised in silent question, and she answers with an enigmatic smile and a little shrug.

The winter sun has long since set by the time the tree is properly decked out and winking cheerfully, its multicolored lights illuminating the living room and reflecting off the windows. Henry asks Emma if Killian can stay for their weekly Pizza Night.

“Well…” Emma drawls good-naturedly, “I suppose we owe him for all his help today, don’t we?”

Pizza Night also turns out to be Movie Night, and before he knows it, Killian finds himself on the couch with Henry sitting between him and Emma as the three of them laugh at _A Christmas Story._

Halfway through, Henry gets up to use the bathroom, and when he runs back, he forcefully wedges himself on to the end of the couch and budges Killian over so that he’s the one now sitting next to Emma. Killian shoots Henry a look at this not-so-subtle manipulation, but the boy blithely ignores him, his attention rooted on the television. Killian glances nervously at Emma and catches her fixing her son with a surprised expression. She meets his eye, and he offers her an embarrassed little smile. To his great relief, she merely crooks the corner of her mouth and goes back to watching the movie, looking thoughtful. 

As the evening goes on, she gradually relaxes, slipping a little down in her seat so that her feet are perched on the coffee table, her arm is pressed snugly against his, and her head rests on the cushion near his shoulder. Her breathing is deep and even, her features content each time Killian sneaks a sideways peek, and he’s sorely tempted to drape his arm around her and draw her close, but this day, this moment, is already far more than he ever expected it to be, and it doesn’t seem prudent to press his luck. So he simply savors the weight of her pressing against him and the peacefulness of her presence, and he realizes, sitting here with her and Henry, surrounded by the soft glow of festive lights and watching a holiday movie, that, for the first time in a long time, it feels like Christmas. 

 

* * *

 

Emma waves as Elsa heads out the door of the coffee shop a little early. It’s the weekend before Christmas, and closing was nearly an hour ago, but she’s volunteered to finish the remaining cleanup duties herself under the guise of showing her employee a little extra holiday kindness. Henry’s sleeping over at a friend’s house, so she doesn’t need to hurry home to get dinner on the table and she can afford to stay a little later tonight. In fact, lingering at the shop for a bit is kind of what she’s planning on.

Out of habit, she peers out front, trying to see the reflection of Horizon Bound in the window of the darkened boutique across the street. The bookstore, too, has been closed for a little while, but she’s not surprised to see the lights are still on, well aware that tonight, Friday, is the night Killian likes to dust and address a few of those other housekeeping tasks that only need doing once a week or so. 

Emma takes a deep breath and reaches for her phone.  
_Are you busy?_  
She bites her lip, waiting for a reply.

_No, just cleaning and closing up. Why?_

_Can you come here? I need your help._

_As you wish._

Her skin tingles with anticipation as she slips her apron over her head and hangs it on a peg. The holiday music mix piping through her overhead speakers switches to The Chipmunks’ “Christmas Don’t Be Late,” and she snorts and reaches for the iPod dock below the counter, rapidly skipping a few tracks ahead. The strain of violins floats down from above as Nat King Cole’s “The Christmas Song” begins to play. _Better._ Emma hums along as she initiates the cleaning cycle on the espresso machine and finishes straightening up behind the counter. 

Jingle bells ring at the front door when Killian appears, a few snowflakes in his dark hair from the light flurries blowing outside. “’Evening, Swan.” He flashes his trademark grin as he approaches the far end of the counter where she’s wiping down the glossy maple surface with a towel. “How can I be of service?”

Emma smiles. “I need help hanging something,” she replies, motioning toward an A-frame ladder leaning against the wall beside her.

He throws a wry glance at the hundreds of Christmas lights and the veritable cloud of paper snowflakes and silver ornaments already strung up all over the coffee shop and lifts an eyebrow. “I’m not sure you’ve any room for another bauble, love,” he teases.

Emma hums, eyelashes fluttering downward. “Well, there’d better be,“ she says with a little huff, reaching below the counter, “Because I realized last weekend when we put up the Christmas trees that I’ve forgotten something.” She pulls out a large spray of mistletoe tied with a pretty red-and-white striped ribbon and attached to a long length of translucent fishing line and sets it in front of him.

She watches with amusement as his brows jump to his hairline and he blinks at the mistletoe. “Um…” He clears his throat soberly. “Well, that is quite the oversight.”

She chuckles. “Mm-hmm.” She points right above his head. “There _is_ a little space right there. Do you mind?”

Killian is in motion before she even finishes talking, ducking behind the counter and nudging her aside so he can set the ladder up with the efficiency of a man on a mission. Emma suppresses a snicker as he hastily affixes the piece of tape she offers him to the end of the fishing line and clamors upward like a monkey, only slowing to make a show of positioning the sprig precisely over his customary spot at the counter. The mistletoe rotates lazily on the line as he jumps back down and sets the ladder aside, grinning like an eager boy scout. “How’s that, Swan?”

Emma seizes the front of his shirt and yanks him forward, sealing her mouth over his and kissing him for all she’s worth. She hears Killian’s sharp intake of air as they stand pressed together and feels his hand delicately cradle her cheek. He parts his lips for her and allows her to steal his breath, and she giggles as she realizes that he tastes like candy canes. Killian rumbles happily in response like a great cat, the sound sending waves of desire rippling through her belly, and her lips move against him more insistently, his stubble burning deliciously against her skin. She can feel the corners of his mouth pulling upward, and his left arm winds around her waist and pulls her flush to him while his tongue meets hers stroke for stroke. She’s had a hunch this man could kiss, but she whimpers now at how right she was, her skin humming and her toes curling inside her shoes. 

She’s lightheaded when they finally break apart, his forehead pressed to hers, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek reverently, and she can feel the elation rolling off him with every heave of his chest. “Bloody hell.”

She bites her lip. “I think the mistletoe works pretty well there, don’t you?”

Killian swallows and nods. 

Emma pulls back a fraction in order to look into his eyes, her hands snaking up to stroke the sides of his face affectionately. “One other thing,” she murmurs.

“Yes, love?”

“Take me to dinner.”

Killian grins. “In due time, Swan,” he answers softly, lowering his head to capture her mouth once more. “Let a man enjoy his new favorite Christmas tradition.”

 

 _Oh, ho, the mistletoe_  
_Hung where you can see_  
_Somebody waits for you_  
_Kiss ‘er once for me_

 _Have a holly jolly Christmas_  
_And in case you didn’t hear_  
_Oh by golly, have a holly jolly Christmas_  
_This year_


End file.
